Corona Coda

Every night at precisely 7:00 pm, when the clapping, shouting, hooting, banging, whistling, stomping  and cheering for healthcare workers (and health!) begins, our COVID-19 lockdown turns into an affirmation of noise and life. 

It fills the early evening air. Passing cars blow their horns. The familiar firehouse across the street with its red door, seasonal decorations and pictures of 9/11 heroes refuses to be left out; suddenly we hear one of those large, very loud, and assertive (as in get outta my way), yet strangely comforting, super important, fire engine blasts that you just can’t ignore. 

Engine 52 traces its history to 1884, when most fire stations were in Manhattan and places further afield and still woodsy were considered wild and untrammeled. The bellowing toot that insists on being heard each evening blares yeah, we're with you, we're in this together New York & we're gonna beat it!!!

Sympathetic magic? Maybe. But who's to say this won't keep our spirits moving while we wait for a more concrete solution? Call it an end-to-pandemic dance. . . .

Corona. . . Part 2

Skyping, face-timing, googling, hanging out or attempting to connect through the "New Annoying"- the Zoom effect that has reared its many little heads (and all at once!)- takes up a lot of time while you're locking down, much of it frustrating and/or disappointing.  Then there is the recovery from the wretchedness of it all, followed by the vow to quit trying to connect in such ways.

Meanwhile the closets were still sitting there, as if they didn't exist, as if there was no reason to tackle them or think about them, because there really was nothing in 'em. . . .

It became harder to get off the couch 'cause of all the baking, even though, if like me, you were not able to find genuine, not-good-for-you, regular white flour because the shelves were devoid of this along with many other ingredients (suddenly everyone is baking from scratch??) & you had to resort to that pasty, concrete textured, overpriced stuff milled of everything from root vegetables to old shoes. Simply getting out the door each day became another hurdle in itself, an exercise in how to prepare for entry into a deadly germ lab of the type one encounters in sci-fi stories where brave scientists swathed in PPE gear from head to foot venture trepidly* into the microbe abyss. 

Forced now to cook, and in a lilliputian sized kitchen smaller than some people's closets, became a heroic challenge. Yes, it actually imbued a feeling of accomplishment, grit, that is until my worst fears came true. . . . The old fridge I'd been planning never to replace because I was sure it was immortal started vying for attention in a hugely stress causing way. It began slowly, with little puddles of water appearing at its base. I found the first one the morning after a big rain storm and just passed it off to water having blown in through the two inches of open window, even though the fridge was at least six feet feet away. 

When the little puddles began to appear that evening again after I had cleaned them up, I knew there was gonna be trouble. How would I be able to purchase a new appliance when all the stores were closed? Why hadn't I done this years before, and not procrastinated?!? And even if I could manage this online, I was told that the delivery people would not bring anything into my home, but rather leave it "curbside" or "outside the door." Yeah. No problem. I would just say the magic words, drink the potion, become the Hulk-ess or Super Woman, haul it inside, and connect it up. . . .

Just as I was getting ready to tear out what was left of my increasingly wild, unkempt locks, I happened to notice that strangely there also was a puddle at the base of a cabinet, situated a couple of feet away from the fridge; so I opened the cabinet door and lo and behold found the inside flooded, awash with the clearly leaking several gallons of bottled water I had stored in there a long time before- the source of the dreaded leak! And thus the mystery of the puddles was solved and I was elated!!! Never was I to be so thrilled to learn that these porous bottles no doubt leaked plastic into your glass too eventually, and had been doing so for years, because I was so happy to have my fridge back!

A day or two of delirious happiness ensued, pure elation over my water bottles leaking all over the cabinet and onto the floor (water having found its lowest level and pooled near the fridge); it actually became something like a brief "staycation" from worry for a day or two. 

Soon however I resumed my routine, and became more social. People had woken up and started calling, I was doing the same and  spending more time on the phone talking about where to get food and toilet paper and generally commiserating and whining. The novelty of the lock down had worn off and we all were fed up. And so it still goes.

Other activities now include listless internet shopping with no completion; continuing to leave house if at all in rags, saving freshly laundered PJs for dress up. These enterprises alternate with bouts of anger and paranoia about the government, and questions about how come the governor's hair was always so immaculately dyed and coiffed if "we are all in it together!" Huh??? And those news commentators were never looking too shabby either. The hair inequality was, and remains, jarring.

There also are fits of quiet rage about the effect on poor people, on small businesses, on the middle class, on the supply chain, on the economy, on my way of life, on the future; the useless elected officials; the useless everything. As the grief over all the loss progressed, more anger & resentment over politicans, the CDC, everyone on or off TV and the shameless coiffing as seen on the screen took up yet more time.

As of now, I'm still looking for masks and toilet paper far into the night; desperation still lurks even though the hoarded little rolls now are stacked up in the foyer like small, uneven pyramids, while knowing too well I am part of the problem but making no excuses. At least I'm not buying ten thousand dollars worth of hand sanitizer to sell on Amazon. Nonetheless I remain chagrined about having to use Scott paper towels and worse; even Marcal (remember that?) has reared its thinly papered head again, after years in retail Siberia. Where did it come from? Is this ubiquitous reappearance in the toilet paper market even authentic, substandard, knock off tissue??

Oh, and those days spent hearing about truck morgues. . .  were they kidding??!!!??? This decidedly was not how to raise morale. And what about all the recovery "models," ranging anywhere from a year to a lifetime?  C'mon folks!! Still can't bear to hear or utter the word "hair." Continue to wave listlessly to masked strangers I do not recognize when I venture out, even though I have known them for years and/or may even be related to them. Still wondering when and if I can make any plans whatsoever, ever.

There is one thing though. . . .

(Tune in next time to find out, if you can find time, that is. . . 
____________________________________________________

*trepidly is just a made up word, a  combination of tepidly and with trepidation; it's fun to make up words during lock down.

Water water everywhere. . . . Corona Chronicle, Part 1

After the initial shock, terror, and growing, mind numbing fright of a 21st century "plague" called "Coronavirus" (soon to be renamed "Covid-19", so much more high tech sounding!), we tried to adjust, right? Even if it meant totally isolating, we would "win this war!" 

That's what they told us on TV.

In the beginning there emerged a kind of bright side. Finally, finally, the chance to get things done at home, things you had long put aside. Esprit d' corps of the mind and task tackling, so to speak. Yippee!- lots  of free time too, no pressure to run out, meditation time, perhaps an entire spiritual reset!!! Time with the family, the kids! With your partner or roommate! Or luscious time alone to read, relax, do exactly what you wish! No rush hour! Three, lazy cups of decaf in the morning. . . .

True, it was not exactly a vacation, but if we didn't succumb to this new germ on the block and managed to survive, why not make the best of it?? When was the last time you actually didn't have to worry about deadlines and doing anything, going anywhere, or taking care of  of stuff??

My first impulse toward adjusting, or figuring out what to engage in besides meditation all day, was to tackle the closets! The first "lock down" would last only a few weeks they said, perfect timing to throw away all the junk that had been accumulating on dusty, overloaded shelves for years, ditch clothes you had not worn since the twentieth century; in essence, a perfect moment in which to order a messy existence.

By the time the government extended the period of our stay home "order" to months, not weeks, not only had the closets not been touched (it was as if there were no closets, they didn't exist, and therefore they contained nothing, nothing whatsoever), slowly it became increasingly hard even to prepare a meal or keep a room vaguely in some sort of livable order.

Like many of you, I soon realized it takes all day to forage for stuff online, like food, masks, gloves, wipes, toilet paper, or worse, to furtively try to leave the house "all suited up" in protective gear, for a clandestine trip to the store; only to get there and stand in a huge, snaking  line six feet away from every other human being while a handful of paper towel and toothpaste seeking souls were admitted to this supply speakeasy two at a time. This event required time, lots of it!

I stopped reading everything but the crawl beneath the screen of the news channels.

When finally you were admitted to the magic cornucopia you once naively regarded simply as a "pharmacy," or you scored a "spot" at three in the morning on one of the overloaded, online grocery websites, or actually made it into a market live, yet another time consuming activity ensued: trying to fill the larder with tasteless non-perishables, which caused you to  wind up with half a dozen, humongous jars of tomato sauce and little else because the market shelves suddenly were empty, bare. 

Frozen, mushy berries had become a hot, black market item, along with spaghetti and eggs, and you don't even like eggs and they never last in your dying fridge anyway (more about that later!), but you would grab at least two or three dozen when you could find them, even though you hated them. You know, just to be safe.

And in truth, how in the hell would you have gotten all that planned cleaning, straightening and reordering done anyway in the mere space of twelve or so hours each day, since your day did not actually start until till almost noon now; if you weren't teaching your kids and everyone else's online, or otherwise "working from home," you were binging on Brit detective stories until the wee hours. Accchhh, those addictive little thrillers,  so clever!!! So well written!!! So beautifully done and impossible not to watch, the mysteries and soaps you now had come to love and in fact rely on,  and the safety of knowing they could be watched over & over & over again if need be, into a kind of endless, TV miniseries eternity . . . .  

Although you had wisely resisted for years, you immediately signed up for a free Netflix trial, even though you knew you would go through the "library" in less than a week but that they would hound you with emails forever. All that other stuff you did before, like running around doing things, working, playing, being outside, seeing friends and family, going to movies, studying, shopping, traveling, living? A complete waste of time. Why did you never realize how comforting and easy and fulfilling it could be to do absolutely nothing but watch TV, often not even bothering getting dressed? Silly you.

Eventually, reality did step into this mythic screen time existence and it all became rather like scream time, no longer nirvana but nerve shattering. . . .

(Part Two next week! Catch it if you have time. . . .)

Pandemic Poetry 7

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), the great metaphysical poet and literary recluse, voluntarily sheltered in place and treasured her solitude. What greater source of inspiration for surviving the times? Each week during the "stay home" order there will be a post of lines from her work, along with some needed if irreverent updating (and for which I know her lyrical spirit will forgive me).

There is no frigate' like a book

   To take us lands away,

Nor any coursers like a page

   Of prancing poetry.

                       -Dickinson

There's no accessory like a mask

   To make you safe and cozy,

And banish thoughts of far off lands

   The news reports "less rosy. . . ."

                       -Storyweaver

Pandemic Poetry 6

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), the great metaphysical poet and literary recluse, voluntarily sheltered in place and treasured her solitude. What greater source of inspiration for surviving the times? Each week during the "stay home" order there will be a post of lines from her work, along with some needed if irreverent updating (and for which I know her lyrical spirit will forgive me).


Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
               -Dickinson


Simple jaunts, simple jaunts!
A store without a line. . .   
reunion with my hairdresser
similarly would be fine!
                -Storyweaver

Pandemic Poetry 5

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), the great metaphysical poet and literary recluse, voluntarily sheltered in place and treasured her solitude. What greater source of inspiration for surviving the times? Each week during the "stay home" order there will be a post of lines from her work, along with some needed if irreverent updating (and for which I know her lyrical spirit will forgive me).


I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
yield such an alcohol!
                           -Dickinson


I drink of a trip never taken,
though planned waaaay back in fall; 
oh, think of all we didn't do. . . .
Damned virus has such gall!!!
                                           -Storyweaver

Pandemic Poetry 4

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), the great metaphysical poet and literary recluse, voluntarily sheltered in place and treasured her solitude. What greater source of inspiration for surviving the times? Each week during the "stay home" order there will be a post of lines from her work, along with some needed if irreverent updating (and for which I know her lyrical spirit will forgive me).

This is my letter to the world,

  That never wrote to me-

The simple news that Nature told,

  With tender majesty.

                            -Dickinson

This is my post to the readers

who never commented here, 
I know you're there- do you really care,
in the covid nineteen year?  Huh?

Just wondering.
                                                   -Storyweaver